'I wisht there was a parson here,' muttered the man in the bunk. 'There
used to be a old chap that come regular to the Sailors' Home--gray
whiskers, he had, an' a long coat--I wisht he was here. He'd tell me.'
The man on the chest listened, his elbows on his knees, his head on his
hands.
'I shook hands with him many a time,' continued Bill. 'He'd tell me--'
Jansen started, and looked up. His bright, deep-set eyes had taken on a
look intent, glowing.
'Shall I read to ye a bit?' he asked. 'I've got a book--it might strike
ye--now.'
'All right,' said Bill indifferently.
The old man crossed the forecastle, opened his chest, and, delving deep
into its contents, brought forth a small, thin book.
It had seen much usage; the binding was broken, the leaves were stained
and torn. The old man handled it tenderly. He held it high before him
that the light from the swinging lantern might fall upon the text, and
read stumblingly, pausing when the light swung too far from him, and
making grotesque blunders over some of the long words.
'What is that book?' asked Bill after a time. 'It ain't the Bible?'
'No,' said Jansen. 'It ain't the Bible.'
'Then who is it says them things?' demanded Bill. 'He talks like he was
Everything.'
Jansen lowered the book. 'I don't exactly understand what they call
him,' he answered, 'they give him so many names. But I reckon nobody but
God talks like that, whatever they call him.'
'Where did you get it? the book, I mean,' persisted Bill.
'I was cleanin' out a passenger's cabin, two voyages back, an' I found
it under the bunk. I've been readin' it ever since. It's all full o'
strange, forrin names, worse 'n the ones in the Bible.'
'Well, neither of 'em stands to help me much,' commented Bill. 'I ain't
never been good. I've been a sailor-man. That book'--he broke off to
groan as the ship rolled heavily, but resumed--'that book says same as
the Bible, that a man's got to be pious an' do good an' have faith, an'
all that, else he don't have no show at all.'
'Listen!' said Jansen. He turned the pages, and read a few lines as
impressively as he could.
'That sounds easy,' said Bill. 'But I ought to ha' knowed about that
before. It's no good desirin' anything now. It's too late. He'd know I
was doin' it just to save my own skin--my soul, I mean.'
'Bill,' said Jansen. 'I'm goin' to ask you something.' He closed the
little book over one finger, and leaned toward the bunk. 'Do you
remember how you come to be hurted this way?'
'The spare spar that was lashed to starboard fetched loose, an' I tried
to stop it,' answered Bill readily. 'I see it comin'.'
'Why did you try to stop it?'
'Well, a big sea had just washed the Old Man down in the lee scuppers,
an' if the spar had struck him it would ha' killed him.'
'It's killed you, Bill,' said Jansen. 'Didn't you think o' that?'
'Me!' exclaimed Bill scornfully. 'Who's me?'
'But why did you want to save his life?' insisted Jansen.
'The ship 'ud stand a likely chance in a blow like this without a
skipper, wouldn't she?'
'Then you thought--'
'Thought nothin'! There was no time to think. I see the spar comin' an'
I says, "Blazes! That'll kill the skipper!" an' I tried to stop it.'
'You ain't sorry you did it?'
'Sorry nothin. What's done's done.'
'See here, Bill,' said old Jansen earnestly. 'I'll tell you what you
did. You did your duty! An' you laid down your life for another. You
saved the captain's life, an' mebbe the ship, an' all our lives through
him. An' you did it without thought o' reward. Don't you s'pose you'll
get a little credit for that?'
'I'm thinkin',' said Bill. He lay silent for a minute. 'Read that
again,' he requested.
Old Jansen did so, and after a pause he added, 'Now, if I was you I
wouldn't worry no more about hell. Just make your mind as easy as you
can. That's a better way to go.'
'I've got that,' said Bill. 'It's all right. Go on; read to me some
more.'
Jansen lifted the book and resumed his reading. He turned the pages
frequently, choosing passages with which he was familiar. The other
moaned at intervals. With every roll of the ship, water plashed faintly
underneath the bunks. The lantern swung unwearied, and sodden clothing
slapped against the walls. Dark shadows rose and stooped and rose again
as if longing and afraid to peer into the narrow berth. The sound of the
storm outside was grave and insistent.
The reader came to the end of a passage, and laid the book on his knee.
Suddenly he realized that the moans had ceased. He leaned over and
looked at the man in the bunk. He was dead.
Old Jansen sat motionless, deep in thought. At length he reopened the
little book, and read once more the lines which he had already repeated
at the dying man's request:--
He is not lost, thou son of Pritha! No!
Nor earth, nor heaven is forfeit, even for him,
Because no heart that holds one right desire
Treadeth the road of loss!
He closed the book and again meditated. Later, he rose, replaced the
book in his chest, drew the dead man's blanket over his face, and went
out on deck.